Green Night

Deep down thighs, unhoisted, what was there, harvesting the sperms ? At dusk an inflorescence breaks into myriads of fireworks, wrecked apologia, interned unlikeness, insanity, kissing the goldenrod to start the flow of bare grief. I deserve no nobility, my moonscape has a blazing truth about a shooting star which went into a gape groaning. Somebody is done for, for a fragile skull. The riverbed buries the dead child in white sands. That lump rises again. I said, I never carry the death on my shoulders. Wrap up and play the drums for I lost the pathways to enemies. SATISH VERMA